


The Lighthouse Keeper

by thatsoccercoach



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: 1800s AU, lighthouse au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-03-09 17:36:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18921820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsoccercoach/pseuds/thatsoccercoach
Summary: Sisters Mackenzie and Jamie stumble upon their family's elusive history, and Claire Beauchamp's journal, when working on a school project.





	1. I

                                                            

It was just a class assignment that I’d decided to push to the limits by procrastinating. If I hadn’t waited for nearly all of the topics to be claimed, I guess I wouldn’t have found her at all. My research probably would have led me elsewhere and  _her_  history, hers  _and_  mine, would have been lost to the years that had passed without any of us the wiser.

Instead, I was stuck with the project that changed my life. Which, I suppose, was a good thing after all.

My sister, Mackenzie, had taken Michigan State History the year we moved to the state. She was always like that: proactive, assertive, forward-thinking. I was the little sister who put things off until they absolutely had to be dealt with. Considering that this course was a graduation requirement, and this was the final semester of my senior year of high school, I’d taken the concept of procrastination to a whole new level.

Mackenzie’s project had been perfection as her work nearly always was. That was one reason for my hesitation. I knew I’d never live up to what she’d done. Most often, I attempted to be as different from her as I could so that the comparisons wouldn’t crop up.

They usually did anyway.

I was old enough to know that people didn’t  _try_  to compare us to my detriment, but I often felt as if that was the way it turned out anyway. Mackenzie was basically perfect. The ideal in nearly every way. In reality, though, Mackenzie was my hero. The perfect big sister, but like I said,  _perfect_. Which made things hard for me in contrast.

When she had done The Project, the final project for state history class, she’d researched the history of our town, tracking its growth over the nearly two hundred years since its inception. Pages of perfectly written research documented the lives of the first settlers. A scale diorama showed the town as it was a hundred years ago and a second one showed the current layout as a comparison. Our mom, head of pediatric oncology at the University of Michigan Hospital hadn’t even helped her with the project.

Now the ball was in my court.

The chair behind me where Izaiah usually sat scraped against the hard floor. Even when everyone was settled in for class it usually wasn’t quiet. First of all, the room was one of the school’s older classrooms. Ancient linoleum, in what probably at one point had been white, covered the floor and the external walls were brick and the internal ones were just plain  _thin_  and lacked insulation. Sound tended to travel through the building as well as echo a bit. Secondly, Mrs. Patrick encouraged participation with “gusto” in each class. Gusto tended to be loud. Even though I hadn’t been eager to take the class, it was never dull.

“Nearly everyone in class has claimed a topic for the final project but the deadline for that choice is today. Does anyone who was undecided have their topic chosen yet? Kyle? Mira?”

Mrs. Patrick looked around the room, glancing at the uncertain students. She didn’t even need to look at her grade book to see who’d chosen and who’d left it until now. She just  _knew_. “If you don’t choose, a topic will be selected for you at random. This is pretty much your last chance.” Her eyes searched the room again.

“Jamie, what about you? You always come up with amazing ideas. Did you choose a topic as your starting point?”

The room smelled like pink erasers which was distracting. Nobody even used those anymore! They always just used the white erasers on the ends of their mechanical pencils or they just used pens.

I fidgeted.

What she said was true, actually. I had good ideas and did do great in school. My projects were creative. I got straight A’s (In general… Mostly.) I was near the top of my class.

I just wasn’t Mackenzie, but I supposed that was  _my_  hangup, not anybody else’s. Mom had said as much the other day. “Nobody is comparing you to Kenzie other than yourself, Jamie. You are bright and talented. Don’t let your insecurities hinder you.”

My relationship with my sister was complicated. Then again, I was in high school. My whole  _life_  was complicated.

“I think I’m going to take the ‘Lighthouse Keepers’ topic. It looks…interesting.” I shrugged my shoulders and wrote it down in my notebook so I wouldn’t forget. It  _didn’t_  look interesting at all to be perfectly honest. But it was one of the only choices left and I was sure there was an excess of information available. We  _did_  live on the Great Lakes after all. It would probably be one of the easier things to write about.

“I’m sure you’ll turn it into something fascinating,” gushed Mrs. Patrick, flapping her hands excitedly. “Remember that your class syllabus has all the instructions, you’ve received a rubric so you know what you’ll be graded on, and our classroom blog has examples of previous projects to serve as examples.”

“Mmm, sure,” I replied.  _Fascinating?_  I wasn’t sure if that word described whatever I was bound to come up with but I was going to give it my best shot.

* * *

I called Mackenzie from just outside the library only an hour into my research. She may have overshadowed me every step of the way but I really couldn’t function without her. Now that she was away at college and mom was at work (all the time, as always) I was alone a lot. My sister had always been my sounding-board and my rock when things were hard. Now the minutes on our cell phones were evidence of our bond.

“Kenzie, do you have a sec?” I asked. My laptop sat on a bench near the main entrance where I could still use the wifi but I was pacing around the entire courtyard area, my flip-flops slapping the stone pavers.

“Yeah, hang on for just a minute.” Papers rustled and I heard some muffled voices before she came back on the line only moments later.

“I was studying in the hallway with some friends from class,” she said in explanation.

“Are you back in your room now?” I asked her. Mackenzie lived in the dorms and she studied in the hallway, in the university library, in empty classrooms that were unlocked, and in the cafe. She studied all the time.

“Uh huh, so we can talk now. What’s up?”

I could picture her leaning back onto her bed, red curls fanning across her pillow. No doubt, she’d grab a strand of that hair and bite the end. That had always annoyed mom but it was a habit Mackenzie couldn’t seem to break. Sometimes I wondered if she did it on purpose; that one, harmless annoying thing where she could be flawed and it wouldn’t matter.

“So, you remember the project that you had to do for state history? Well, my topic is lighthouse keepers in Michigan but I got sidetracked and I,” I paused, not quite knowing how to explain things. “I think I maybe found something  _actually_  important.”

“Important like how, Jamie?” she laughed as I rambled. “If you’re doing research it could all be important!”

“Um, like, I found a Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp and a Lambert Quentin Beauchamp,” I paused and waited for her to process what I’d said. The phrase “The silence was deafening” came to mind and I understood it in an entirely new way as I waited, able to hear the thud of my own heartbeat in my ears.

“Henry and Julia, I found them too,” I continued. “Lambert was a lighthouse keeper on the coast, up north somewhere and a Clarence Beauchamp followed him at the post before some Fraser-someone-or-other took over. I have his records, the Fraser records, and the library database says that Claire’s actual journal is available on the microfiche machine…if I can figure out how to use  _that_.”

“There’s  _no way_  all that could be coincidence,” Kenzie stated succinctly.

“I know,” I breathed. “So what do I do next?”

“Are you logged into an online database or are you at the actual library? Can I see what it is you’re researching?”

As I provided the information for her to log in and find the documents I was looking at, I opened another tab on my laptop’s browser to start a chat with her. We hung up and I went back into the library where the wifi signal was stronger.

We had  _no_  physically documented family history. Other than oral tradition that could be traced no farther than our grandparents on mom’s side of the family, our past was a black hole. The reasoning behind it was sound: wars, immigration, the passage of time.  _Our_  history was lost  _to_  history.

But our family stories had names. Those stories were how we’d gotten  _our_ names. Mom was Julia Claire, my sister was Mackenzie Amanda, and I was Jamie Faith. And we had an Uncle Henry.  _Everyone_  shared those names in some variation.

There was no way that was a coincidence. Those names had been passed down through generations and we’d thought any physical evidence that linked us with the past was gone, but quite possibly, if we got our hands on Claire Beauchamp’s journal, that would all change.

* * *

_Just call me now!_

Mackenzie’s words glowed on the screen in front of me and I grinned. We’d really tracked her down, this Claire Beauchamp! For the past forty-five minutes, I’d been looking at the microfiche, reading the pages of her journal and discovering more and more about her. I kept sending messages to Kenzie so that she’d know what I was looking at. She was reading related articles from the online database with little luck and was getting frustrated that I’d been digging into the good stuff.

Only moments ago I found exactly what we were looking for. It wasn’t what I needed for my project at school.  _That_  had been thrown by the wayside in the initial discovery of Claire. No, instead I’d been reading the journal page where a new lighthouse keeper came to take over the light for Claire’s uncle. As far as records went, Clarence had been the keeper following Lambert, but according to the journals that wasn’t how it happened at all. I’d read the pages quickly, a smile growing on my face the whole time.

_Now, Jamie!_

Another message flitted across the screen of my laptop and I finally flipped it shut. I’d call her in a minute. The moment I knew what was happening, I’d call my sister.

And there it was! Found ‘em. Found  _us_  in a way, I was sure.

I hit the  _call_  button on my cell and snuck a look over my shoulder hoping the librarians wouldn’t notice that I was on my phone. The area with the microfiche machine and old documents wasn’t commonly used so there really wasn’t a need for concern, but I didn’t want to be disruptive…or be interrupted.

She answered right away, clearly having been waiting for me.

“Kenzie,” I whispered. “This is it!”

“What exactly did you find, Jamie! You’ve gotta tell me!” she begged.

“It’s Claire’s journal. It’s in the spring of 1830. The passage starts off with ‘Today I met him. James Alexander Malcom Mackenzie Fraser.’”


	2. II

                                                                 

Uncle Lamb had sent her into town that day with a request for the regular groceries. She was also intended to check the post, though it was rare that anything ever came. Her booted foot slipped on a smooth rock as she crossed the long spit of land between the lighthouse and the mainland as she let loose a string of _very unladylike_  expletives.

Claire had her own purpose for going into town as well. Her uncle’s lingering cough from an illness over the winter concerned her and she knew of a few herbs that, once brewed into a tea, might help sooth it

“ _Finally_ ,” she huffed, steadying herself along the beach having managed to cross the rocks without damage to either herself or the basket she held, and only minor dampness to one foot.

At low tide, one could cross from the lighthouse and it’s tower to the beach by walking the narrow stretch of rocks. The pathway had been built, stone by stone, when the lighthouse itself had. Perched on a natural rocky outcropping, the beacon shown up and down the treacherous shore.

Once the tide came in, the only way to get home was by a rowboat. More often than not, Lambert Beauchamp used the boat anyway saying that it was better than wrenching an ankle on the stony “path.” Due to her size and strength, tending more to the slender and delicate, Claire opted to go on foot instead of rowing.

She straightened her bonnet, then her skirts, and began her walk into town. It wasn’t a long walk by any measure. Grafton Light’s location was established exactly where it was because there had been a settlement nearby. Though the nearest harbor was still quite a distance away, this was where the dangerous shoreline had the most shipwrecks in the years leading up to the construction of the beacon.

Fewer than twenty minutes later, Claire leaned against the back of the town’s small schoolhouse, dumped sand from her boots before replacing them, and entered the town proper. She entered only to be stopped immediately, bumping into the reverend. Literally.

“ _Oh good Lor-_ ” she gasped as he clasped her elbows, keeping both of them from falling.

“Mistress Claire!” he exclaimed, far more pleased to see her than she was to see him.

“Um, yes. Hello Reverend.” Conversation between the two never flowed smoothly. The reverend, since his arrival in Grafton, had been smitten with Claire, who was _at least_ ten years his junior and completely disinterested. It was Claire who seemed to be overly sensitive to how awkward their interactions where while he was completely ignorant, either naturally or willfully so.

“I would so love to have you to supper someday soon,” he said. Her elbows were still cupped in the palms of his hands and they were standing unreasonably close.

She tilted her head back to look up at him. He smiled down, in what she supposed was intended to be a charming way. It was decidedly _not_ charming at all but she tactfully refrained from saying as much.

“I’ll speak with my uncle about it,” she murmured demurely, using all the restraint she had while he continued to encroach upon her personal space.

“With your uncle?” he asked, looking genuinely puzzled. “Oh, I suppose he could come as well.” The Reverend Frank Randall sighed resignedly.

“Think of your public image, Reverend,” she reminded him. “A young woman alone in your house with you may give the wrong impression. Once impressions are made, they’re difficult to undo.”

A shadow of frustration crossed his face at that and she shivered, pulling deliberately to free herself from his grasp.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have errands to run for my uncle.” She turned and walked with an even stride, not looking back. She could feel his eyes boring into her, even as she reached the corner of the general store and turned around its edge to the front.

Frustratingly, every interaction with Reverend Randall seemed to proceed in the same fashion. He clearly wanted something that she was very clear on _not_ being interested in. To some degree it didn’t matter though. He was the reverend and as such, he held a certain level of influence. She shivered and continued walking, throwing the door of the general store open to go inside.

Jars -some full and others nearly empty- lined shelves, bundles of herbs and dried flowers hung from the rafters, a few bolts of plain fabric stood on their ends.

“Claire!” a cheery voice came from behind the counter. Red-headed Gillian was there, tending the store that was owned by her father. She often did so as she had a head for numbers and a shrewd business sense. She could bargain and always came out with the advantage.

“Hello Gillian,” Claire replied, smoothing her dress again, as if that would soothe her nerves.

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. What’s happened then?” Gillian pressed, then rolled her eyes suddenly. “Reverend Randall again, is it?”

“Yes,” Claire huffed. “Inviting me to dinner once again, standing unreasonably close to do so, smiling in that way that isn’t a smile at all!”

“You’d do well to at least consider him though.”

“Gillian! He’s at least ten years older than I. And he’s a _reverend_!” she added as if that was an automatic strike against him. “Mostly, he just doesn’t care about who I am. I’m not going to marry and settle down and be the perfect little housewife. He doesn’t seem to know that let alone care.”

“Yes well, it’s not as if we’ve much choice in a town such as this,” the redhead argued halfheartedly.

It was rather easy for Gillian to talk though, as she already had a young man courting her. _More_ than courting if what she shared in whispers between the two of them was true. And it was true. Though her parents were upstanding, though they said their daughter was still too young to marry, Gillian was headstrong and had ideas of her own.

“I’d rather be a spinster than have anything with the reverend,” Claire retorted, actually (and juvenilely) stomping her foot for emphasis. “Now, is there any mail for Uncle Lamb?”

“No, no mail. But I’ve your regular supplies here.” Gillian nudged a brown paper-wrapped parcel across the counter toward her friend.

“Thanks Gillian. You don’t happen to have more spices in, do you?”

“No,” she shook her head. “You’d best try the apothecary for that. Making one of your little witch’s brews?” she taunted playfully.

“You know that what I make actually works!” Claire laughed at her friend’s skeptical expression. “There are traditional methods for healing that truly do work, you’ve _seen_ it. I’ve even been reading more in some books Uncle Lamb got from Paris.”

“Nose in a book all the time,” Gillian sighed. “You’ll miss out on life that way, Claire.”

“Or I’ll learn something,” she returned shortly, all the while knowing that Gillian was teasing.

Both young ladies had received their educations at the town’s one-room schoolhouse, though Uncle Lamb had insisted on supplementing that education. He taught his niece French, which she spoke fluently, and Latin, with which she struggled. He provided texts on medical research and procedures, books on history and culture, and classic literature.

He had always treated Claire as if she were capable and intelligent, which she was. In return, Claire grew in her hunger for knowledge and her desire to put the knowledge into action.

Once her education at school had become stagnant, Uncle Lamb had convinced Dr. Beaton to allow Claire to work as an assistant, learning crucial skills. On her own, Claire sought out Mrs. Crook who served as midwife for theirs and neighboring towns, learning from her as well.

A woman of learning may not have been viewed by all as something necessary, but it was how Claire thrived.

“I suppose I’ll need to look elsewhere for the rest of what I need then,” Claire continued.

“Ask Mrs. Crook. She always has your wee herbs on hand,” Gillian smiled at her and bade her farewell as she continued on her errands.


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire and Uncle Lamb, Claire and Dr. Beaton, two of the men in her life.

                                                          

“Uncle?” she called into their modest little house. “I’ve brought back some things to make a tea for you.”

 

He entered, lean and tall, reading a book. “That’s lovely, dear. And with the tide down you didn’t have any trouble I assume?”

 

“Nothing aside from an unpleasant run-in with Reverend Randall. He’d like to have us to supper. Or rather, he’d like to have _me_ to supper but I won’t go,” she arched her brows as she spoke.

 

“The reverend is a...reasonable man,” her uncle said carefully. “He sees you as a potential wife, Claire. But I hope you know your own worth and strength whether he pursues you or not.”

 

“I _do_ know, Uncle. That’s precisely why I don’t care to spend any more time with the man than necessary,” she retorted, then sighed. “I understand the stability being with a man such as the reverend would offer to me as a woman, Uncle Lamb. But I also know I wouldn’t be happy being in a loveless marriage regardless of anything else.”

 

Her uncle smiled at her then, pride showing on his face. “Darling, you would have made your parents proud. All that knowledge in your mind, beauty to behold, and a sharp, witty tongue,” he chuckled. “You remind me of them. Both of them, in different ways, so often.”

 

“But you really do think they’d be proud?” she asked beseechingly. “Even if I end up a spinster after turning down the reverends advances?”

 

“Maybe even more so after that!” he laughed outright then coughed.

 

“Sit down and I’ll brew you some of the tea,” she chided him, then began to relay the entirety of her trip into town. “I ran into Gillian in the store. She said there was no post for you but none had been brought in a while anyway. Then there was Dr. Beaton. I visited him and he said that old Mr. MacGillivray’s toe has become gangrenous and he’ll need to take it off!” She nearly exclaimed this last part a bit gleefully.

 

Uncle Lamb turned a slightly pale at that news.

 

“He’ll tell me before he performs the operation so that I can assist. It ought to be fairly simple. All that needs to be done is-”

 

“Claire?” her uncle interjected. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not hear the details of how it’s done, yes?”

 

“Oh!” she cried in surprise, then smiled at herself, knowing that he preferred _not_ to hear of the medical escapades she had with Dr. Beaton. “Of course. Now then, tea and,” she looked around as if that would jog her memory. “And supper I suppose.”

 

“And the light,” reminded Uncle Lamb.

 

“Always the light,” she affirmed.

 

Keeping the light wasn’t a dull task like some might imagine, nor did she resent the keeping of it herself when her uncle wasn’t well enough to do it on his own. In fact, she felt that it gave her a sense of purpose, much like healing did. To know that you were doing something that was helping others, to know that what you did had an impact beyond yourself, it was a humbling thing.

 

_Their home attached to the light was small and simple, but was quite sturdy in regards to structure. The storms on the east coast were strong and battered against the landforms, taking back into the sea anything that wasn’t secure. The tower that housed the light itself rose above them at one end of the house. Since childhood,Claire had loved climbing the spiral staircase to the top, round and round in a pattern that reminded her of the shell of a nautilus._

 

 _“‘_ _Lights must be exhibited punctually at sunset and kept lighted at full intensity until sunrise, when the lights will be extinguished and the apparatus put in order without delay for relighting,’ Claire,” her uncle had explained when she was small, quoting the handbook which was always nearby to which he never needed to refer._

 

_“Why do they use so many fancy words for the rules, uncle?” she pondered aloud. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to be certain people understood what the rules were all about?”_

 

_“You’re a wise one, for a child so young!” he’d smiled at her, pleased with her curiosity and intellect._

 

_“I already know what they mean by ‘punctual’ because we must always be punctual when arriving places as it shows respect for others.”_

 

_She said it in tone of voice so like her mother’s that Lamb glanced at her again to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. Often she did that, mimicking her parents to an uncanny degree without even having the memory to know what she was doing._

 

_“But, Uncle, whatever do they mean by intensity? I’ve not heard that word and I must know it!”_

 

_He’d patiently explained that and so many other things over the years. Lately, he’d been trying to instill something else into his niece though. For whatever reason, he felt it in his bones, a sense of foreboding. He didn’t know what was to come but there was an urgency that he prepare Claire for it._

 

_“A keeper must ‘clean the lense and lantern daily,’” piped the little girl in his memories. Now she did the task without the oral recitations though. Her long, slender fingers, much like her father’s steady hands, would polish the lenses, leaving them free off the grime and grit from the burning wick._

 

In name, the keeper of the light was Lambert Beauchamp. In action, the keeper was very often Claire.

* * *

 

 

“Mmm,” Dr. Beaton grunted, holding out his hand palm up for his surgical instrument.

 

“What is it that you’re--” Claire queried, leaning in to see before being interrupted by another grunt. She handed over the proper item before trying once again to get a better look.

 

“Uhh,” he muttered waving his hand now empty again. “Later,” he spat out.

 

“Oh, all right,” she handed him the tool wordlessly.

 

The amputation of MacGillivray’s toe had been scheduled and Claire called upon to assist in the procedure, much to her delight. She had her riotous curls pulled back tightly, though some had made their escape already, and a sturdy apron covered the entire front of her small frame.

 

The patient let out a soft moan and began to fidget.

 

“Claire, the laudanum” the doctor prompted, without ceasing in his work.

 

Carefully, she held the tiny bottle to the man’s mouth, administering the laudanum cautiously until he relaxed once more. The moments passed, Claire observing the quick, decisive work of Dr. Beaton in silence until the procedure reached its conclusion.

 

“And done!” Dr. Beaton sighed happily, setting down his instruments and wiping his hands on the front of his own apron. He nudged MacGillivray’s shoulder only to receive a gentle snore from the patient.

 

“Now can you explain to me what you just did?” Claire asked eagerly. “Would you use the same approach for any amputation or was what you did specific just to this?” Her curiosity was palpable and came pouring out in a tumble of questions that made the old doctor smile.

 

When Lambert Beauchamp had first approached him regarding the young lady before him, he’d been a bit reluctant to consider taking on her training. But Lamb had made a convincing argument, listing off his niece’s many accomplishments, and the doctor had cautiously agreed to a trial period. Claire had proven that her uncle had not been bragging or making empty promises about her knowledge. She had exceeded every requirement at the town’s small school, was well-read, knew fluent French and no small amount of Latin, had an open mind, and was a quick and intuitive learner.

 

Sitting near their patient so as to monitor him, Dr. Beaton carefully debriefed the entire procedure with his young apprentice. They walked through what he had done, step by step, while Claire interjected clarifying questions along the way. Her insight and uncanny sense of what to do were a delight to the doctor.

 

“I ought to let you head home now or your uncle will be upset with me for keeping you so long,” Dr. Beaton chuckled. “You’re a quick study, Claire. Before you know it, you’ll be capable of managing things such as this! Now, off you go!”

 

“Before I do, is there anything else you might recommend for Uncle Lamb? That cough of his is still lingering though he’s not feverish or fatigued. I know I worry overmuch, but he’s all that I have and he _must_ be well. I simply won’t have it any other way,” she smiled as she said the words so the doctor would understand that while she was stubborn, she could be reasonable as well.

 

“I think the teas that Mrs. Crook gave you are probably your best option for a cough. You know I don’t always appreciate that woman and her meddling, but in this case I must admit that she’s likely given you the best help,” he shook his head and sighed over the fraught relationship with Mrs. Crook.

 

“Thank you then, Dr. Beaton,” she smiled and continued, saying something _only Claire_ would say. “It was lovely assisting you with the amputation today!”

 

The doctor laughed as the girl left in a flurry of skirts and tousled curls. He knew that the reverend had expressed interest in her hand, as had several other young men, but he wasn’t sure that any of them would be up to the task of matching Claire’s personality. Most certainly though, the world was better for having Claire Beauchamp in it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this little fic leaves your heart light and fluffy! Thanks, as always, to happytoobservenolongerdistant who fixed things when necessary and was just generally supportive of my writing endeavor. I struggle to write longer fics and I almost never share before I publish, so her gentleness in reviewing it all was a relief!


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The storm is coming and Claire responds in typical Claire-fashion.

                                                              

The clouds rolled in rapidly, shocking Claire with their speed. Though she couldn’t remember life before the lighthouse and Uncle Lamb, she was  _still_ surprised by the power of nature when it struck their shores. Storms rolled in and battered the rocky shoreline leaving the land changed in its wake. Nature’s power was both beautiful and terrifying. Maybe that was what she found most fascinating about medicine; that the human body was capable of withstanding, adapting, or creating, leaving something new in its wake.

“ _Merde!_ ” she spat out to nobody in particular, pulling her cloak tighter against the driving wind.

The tide was still low enough that by the time she reached the long spit of land, she’d be able to cross it on foot. The waves would be getting rather treacherous by that point. She had to go back though, or she’d be stranded in town and Uncle Lamb would be stranded at the light alone. It wasn’t that the light couldn’t be kept by one person, but in a storm, it was always good to have two.

Also, she felt better being with her uncle at those times.

Well, she’d arrive home soaked to the bone with sea water, but there was nothing to be done for it. She began the walk across the strip of rocks, mind set on the fire her uncle would have in the fireplace and tea, a cup for each of them, that she could wrap her hands around.

By the time she reached home, she’d dreamed up a number of scenarios involving warmth, warm food, and warm drinks.

“Claire!” Uncle Lamb exclaimed as the door banged open behind her with another gust of wind. “Come in dear. Oh, I thought you’d stay in town!” In what appeared to be a choreographed routine he stood, pushed the kettle on to boil, grabbed a blanket from the back of the rocking chair, and removed his niece’s cloak, replacing it with the dry blanket.

She shivered and rubbed her arms with her chilly hands. “When have I  _ever_ stayed in town, leaving you alone during a storm, Uncle?” she asked in exasperation.

Again, she shuddered, her cold hands an almost transparent white and her red nose beginning to run.

“Move closer to the fire, my dear. The light is already burning and we’ve plenty of wood for our fire. Get dried off or you’ll catch your death of cold!”

“I’ve told you before,” she muttered through chattering teeth, “That’s not what causes one to become ill.”

“Clearly, once you warm up you’ll be fine. You’re quite yourself even being chilled to the bone,” he laughed. “Go change into something dry and I’ll have your tea ready once you get back.” He hustled her into the small room off the side of the house where she slept.

The storm raged on through the night bringing back memories of one particularly strong tempest that had hit the coast when Claire had been quite small. She had awoken because of the noise and had gone looking for her uncle only to find him at the table, writing a report by the light of an oil lamp. Storms darkened the skies considerably, creating a greater need to light the beacon. That, in turn, used more fuel which was required to be documented in the monthly report given to the lighthouse council.

_“Uncle Lamb!” she cried as her tiny bare feet slapped across the floor and she threw herself headlong into his lap. “It’s so noisy! Did the awful storm wake you as well?” she mumbled into his robe, not daring to scoot away from him._

_Gently, he scooped her up and held her to his shoulder instead. At four years old, she was long-limbed and fine-boned. Her lithe little frame was still easy to hold._

_“No, my dear,” he soothed her, speaking gently. “Though the storm is raging, we’re safe and well together.” He smiled reassuringly as she finally leaned back to look him in the face and he ran a finger down her rosy cheek as he’d seen Henry and Julia do when Claire had been but a baby._

_“What are you about, then?” she sniffled and plunked her head back against him, snuggling in again._

_“Keepers have the role of guiding ships to safety in times like this,” he began._

_She nodded at him, eyes wide and serious._

_“Though we’re safe, we must keep the lighthouse itself in mind. The flames from the lamp can be the cause of problems for keepers who aren’t vigilant,” he cautioned her._

_“What’s that mean, Uncle? Vigilant?”_

_“Vigilance is watchfulness, attentiveness. A good keeper is ever watchful, knowing that the ships at sea are kept from harm by our lights.”_

_From that night on, Claire and Lamb watched through each storm, side by side._

* * *

The storm had passed by the next day, though it had made for a long night of watching. At dawn, Uncle Lamb had nearly fallen into bed with exhaustion. Claire had extinguished the lamp, trimmed the wick, refilled the oil, and cleaned the lenses that allowed one small light to be seen from afar. The Fresnel lens was a relatively new invention in lighthouse technology and not all lighthouses had them yet. They improved visibility by a vast amount, increasing safety in turn. Claire and Uncle Lamb had read about the inventor, Augustin Fresnel, choosing to be one of the first houses with the new lens.

“The concept of it makes perfect sense,” Claire had exclaimed upon reading the information placed before her by her uncle. “Why has no one ever considered using concentric lenses to act as a magnification device?”

“In the defense of those not using the new lens, there  _is_ substantial controversy surrounding it. They’ve actually launched a congressional investigation into the efficacy of the lens down in the States,” explained her uncle.

Thankfully, that lens had shone its light through the storm, piercing the darkness up to 35 kilometers in the distance.

Now, with the danger passed, her uncle resting, and her own brief catnap completed, Claire was off following her post-storm tradition she’d kept since childhood. She carried her gathering basket along in case of discoveries as she walked the storm ravaged beach.

As children, she and Gillian would have walked the coast together, searching for discoveries washed up by the surge of the storm. Now, each one on the cusp of womanhood, each with increasing responsibilities, Claire was usually the only one to walk the shores. The tradition would continue though, with the community’s curious children and in years to come, possibly her own someday.

A handful of the town’s children could be seen down the beach together. A few adventurous souls had their boots off, laces tied and draped over their necks as they waded into the frigid water with the imperviousness of childhood. It was rare that anything of value was found in the flotsam, but the lure of possibility brought the children near the shore. Claire herself, always one to read and imagine, had often dreamt of a castaway washing up on their shore. In her imagination, she’d smuggle the bedraggled being up to the shed and nurse him back to health, all the while learning a romantic story of escape from false accusations or imprisonment. Then they’d escape and start a life together.

It was not that she had anything from which to escape or that she wanted to go elsewhere, just that she imagined someone who chose her, not an altered version of her like the Reverend Randall wanted, in spite of any surrounding circumstances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to @happytoobservenolongerdistant (on Tumblr0 for her constant support and willingness to wade through the chaos of my fic to help get it ready for you all. Thanks to those of you who have been reading and commenting. I haven’t been good about replying to you all, but I read every single comment and they bring me such joy! Thank you for letting me write for you all!


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: major character death

                                                               

It happened that Claire, in fact, did not catch cold after braving the storm to get back home. Uncle Lamb did though.

“Well, Claire,” Dr. Beaton sighed, wiping his hands on a towel to dry them after treating her uncle. “You’ll need to keep his fever under control as much as possible. Push the fluids. Tea, water, broth, anything that he can keep down will help him.”

It was the worst Claire had seen her uncle, and she was, to be completely honest, quite frightened by how quickly he’d fallen ill.

“If you need my help, come into town to fetch me, otherwise I’ll send one of the boys from town out here tomorrow to check on how you are faring. If they bring word back that I’m needed, I’ll make my way back here to help.”

She nodded wordlessly and wrung her hands. There was no point fretting over it. She knew how to care for someone with pneumonia. She also knew how dire the situation was. Uncle Lamb had been weakened by his previous illness. He’d never fully recovered to his previous strength and vigor. Now, worn down by the burdens of his work, the preparations that went into being ready for the storms, and the recent long night of the storm itself had led him to this point.

She could take care of her uncle. She could also take care of the light. These were things she was strong enough to handle.

_“Uncle?” Tiny Claire asked. “What if you fall down our twirling stairs and there’s no strong men to take care of the light? What would be done then?”_

_“Why, you would do it, young lady,” he smiled at her and she thought at first he was playing, but she soon realized he wasn’t. Not at all._

_“Didn’t you know that there are many women who have cared for lighthouses? Who manned the station? Though,” he muttered to himself, “Manned seems an odd turn of phrase in this case.” He shrugged and looked at his bewildered niece, then he sighed, extending his arms to the little girl before him._

_“Come, Claire, let me show you how strong you are.”_

_He’d taken her up the “twirling stairs” to the light itself, something they did often. This time was different though. He showed her how to polish the lens so the light shone out to sea. He showed her how to replenish the oil, to keep the light burning, and had allowed her to trim the wick. He’d taught her about the mechanism that kept the light turning throughout the hours of darkness and had shown her the steps to maintain it. And he’d told her of the ladies of the light._

_“An Irish monk, Dubhan, set a beacon out as a signal in the 5th century. It was on that site that one of the first lighthouses was built. Just after 1100, the nuns of St. Anne’s kept the light at Youghal until nearly 1550. They fulfilled their calling to see those at sea safely home. You, Claire, you have the strength to do the same. In fact it is in your name.”_

_“My name?” the child asked, surprised. “What’s that got to do with anything?”_

_“Claire means ‘bright,’ my dear. You already keep the light because you are light.”_

She sniffled at the memory and then swiped at her nose with the hem of her apron. There was nothing left to be done except watch over her uncle. And keep the light.

                       

* * *

 

It happened nearly as fast as the storm that had come upon them the previous day, and with equal vengeance.

Uncle Lamb’s fever had spiked during the night. His chest rattled with coughs that slowly subsided by morning as his breathing became shallower. By the time one of the young boys from town made it to the lighthouse, she was nearly beside herself with worry as she turned him around abruptly with instructions to run and fetch the doctor as quickly as possible.

When Dr. Beaton arrived, things were perilous to say the least. Already, Lambert Beauchamp had been fragile and weak, more so than Claire had likely realized being around him on a daily basis. His pulse was weak and erratic. His lips had taken on a grey-blue hue. He hadn’t spoken at all, and only muttered incoherently.

Claire had fled as soon as the doctor came, hoping beyond anything reasonable, that a few herbs brewed into a concoction might help turn things around for her uncle. She’d thrown her shawl around her shoulders and told the doctor where she was off to. His only response, knowing better than to refuse her outright, was to tell her not to be gone long.

When she returned, basket in hand, it was to the sound of her uncle’s voice unsteadily saying something about the light.

“The light must be kept,” he mumbled as Dr. Beaton paced back and forth, shaking his head. “The light. See the light safe.”

“He’s been at this since you left, Claire. I don’t think it will be long,” warned the physician.

“That can’t be true,” she argued futilely. “I refuse to believe it.”

But she went immediately to her uncle’s side and grasped his hand. “I’m here, Uncle Lamb.”

“The light,” he whispered. “How she shines.”

As quickly as that same storm of yesterday had come upon them, it had passed. And Lambert Beauchamp was gone just as abruptly.


	6. VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can Claire be trusted to run the light in her uncle's stead? It seems as if most of the men in the town don't think so. The arrival of the new lighthouse keeper signals a change.

                                                                  

Though she missed her uncle and would continue to do so, she knew she could manage to make things work. Keepers received a stipend upon which she could live comfortably. And she knew the ins and outs of the job like the back of her hand, had done it all when her uncle couldn’t. The logistics of it all were quite reasonable. People were  _not_ reasonable though.

Reverend Randall had arrived immediately following Uncle Lamb’s passing. To most, it would have appeared that he came to offer comfort and his service. The immediacy and intensity of his arrival signaled otherwise to Claire. To her, his presence created pressure and tension instead.

Looking dapper in the clothes he wore to Sunday meeting, he approached her with his hands held out to her, palms up ready to receive. She did  _not_ place her hands into his.

“Claire,” he murmured, not unkindly. “It would behoove you to remember that though you may feel alone at this time, you musn’t think it has to be that way.”

His words said one thing and his presence another. That was nearly always the case with him and Claire  _still_ didn’t care for it at all.

“I don’t feel  _alone_ at all, Reverend,” she replied.

“Well, a young woman such as yourself might find herself in a vulnerable,” he paused on the word, “Situation being stationed at a light on her own. I’m sure a replacement will come soon and you’ll be able to find suitable lodging in town.”

As he spoke, his proximity to her changed until he was standing uncomfortably close. He towered over her and she was savvy enough, even in the midst of her grief, to realize the move was probably purposeful.

“There’s no other lodging as you well know,” she sighed, wanting desperately to roll her eyes in exasperation but, barely, refraining from doing so. “And I won’t be going anywhere. I’m well-trained and able-bodied. The lighthouse commission will see that I can continue in my uncle’s stead.”

“You’ll pardon my saying so, but I think they may question if you have the fortitude required to do this on your own. You’re young, Claire, barely old enough to be considered a woman at all. Certainly not as capable as a man of making a living and supporting yourself,” he said. “Remember, there are those, and I offer myself as an example here, who would care for you, Claire.”

His tone of voice implied only concern for her well-being, but Claire felt no comfort in his offer of solace at all.

The Reverend’s visit was closely followed by a visit from two of the elders from the church and the mayor of the town, each of whom expressed in similarly chauvinistic fashion that Claire couldn’t possibly make the situation, as it was, work.

Appalled by the proposed “solutions” to her situation, she retired that evening alone and somewhat discouraged in spite of her determination. Apparently, the lighthouse commission had been notified already that her uncle was no longer manning the light. The town council had written a letter and had sent it with one of the young men on horseback to be delivered. Claire knew they had done so out of helpfulness, most likely, but it put her in a more difficult place. She couldn’t prove herself capable in the short time it took for a letter to reach them!

Again, motivated possibly by a desire to be helpful, but more likely for other reasons, the Peterson family had offered to allow her to stay with them, as a governess to their children once the new lighthouse keeper came to take over the station. She knew, from what she saw while she was still at the schoolhouse, that Mr. Peterson was  _not_ the type of man whose house she wanted to live in. Though nobody would ever say so outright, as clearly demonstrated by current circumstances, he was known as a man who enjoyed the company of several ladies…to whom he was most definitely not married.

So it seemed as if she would be forced away from the home she loved and into that of the Petersons or eventually Reverend Randall. Her day tainted by frustration over the lack of control she held over her own life, she slept fitfully that night.

* * *

 

“Claire Elizabeth, is it  _true_ then?” Gillian nearly pounced on her as she entered the store.

The anxiety of her current state weighed heavily on her and her very presence showed the sorrow. She held herself a bit stiffly, as if to protect herself from the outside, as if she might break when pressed too hard. Gillian paused, then set aside her curiosity to embrace her friend gently.

Only one week had passed since Uncle Lamb’s death, only days since he was buried.

“I don’t know Gillian,” Claire relaxed a bit, sheltered by her confidante’s arms. “Is  _what_ true?”

“That you are going to marry the reverend! I knew that the Petersons offered you a place, and I would never take that either. But to marry the Reverend when you said you’d never!” Gillian raised her eyebrows.

“ _You_ said I ought to consider it. You said there wasn’t likely any other hope in a town such as this,” Claire retorted, taken aback. “And no! I’m  _not_. Where on earth did you hear such a thing?”

The red-head leaned back on the counter and raised her eyebrows. “The reverend himself said he wouldn’t be surprised if there was a wedding soon, with you being all on your own now. I may have been listening in to a conversation though, so…” she trailed off, waving a hand airily.

“Gillian,” Claire scolded crossly. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, honestly. I’m not going to the Petersons and I’m not marrying the Reverend. I’m staying right where I’m at.”

The bell over the door jingled and two women walked in. Claire sighed, then walked away, allowing her friend to help the new customers. She had enough money to be comfortable for a time. Her uncle had been diligent about saving when he could, about limiting waste, about being efficient. She could address all her current needs in the shop and around town, and still have some savings. If she were allowed to keep the light, she would have a sufficient and steady source of income. But if she were displaced from the lighthouse, which seemed as if it would be the case in the near future, she wasn’t certain what she would do.

To the north there were larger towns with boarding houses and different types of work. She wasn’t a skilled seamstress which was probably the most common job she’d be able to find. She was talented when it came to healing, but she doubted that another doctor would be lenient as Dr. Beaton had been when he’d taken her on to train her and allow her to work for him. She let out a frustrated sigh and tucked a wild curl behind her ear, checking to see if her friend had helped the other customers yet.

Gillian handed her a molasses candy when she returned to the front of the store. They’d snuck those out of the jar since they were small children until Gillian’s family had finally set aside a few for the children to have each time they helped in the shop.

“I’m staying in the lighthouse, Gillian. I don’t care what they say here in town, nor do I care what the Lighthouse Commission says. I know how to keep the light and I’ll continue to do so. I’ll prove to them I can.”

She stood tall with her bony shoulders straight, a young woman who appeared to be almost fragile under the weight of her current burdens. But there was an underlying determination that wouldn’t be defeated nor taken advantage of.

“That’s fine to say, Claire. And it isn’t that I don’t have faith in you. But I can’t see how anyone would let you, hardly old enough to even be called a woman, decide how things ought to be run. You may want to seriously consider which of the options in front of you is best before you’re forced one way or the other without your consent.”

Gillian’s words were harsh. And chillingly true.

* * *

 

Claire startled at the knock on the thick planks of wood that formed front door. Knocking had never seemed to echo before, but now, with her uncle gone, she noticed that it had a hollow sound and wondered if it was her imagination or just something she hadn’t observed when he was present. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and closed the book she’d been reading, setting it beside the chair in front of the fire.

“I’m coming!” she called out, somewhat reluctantly, knowing that with her luck lately it would probably be the Reverend Randall, or someone associated with the town mayor, or the city council.

She was startled to open the door to the two strangers who accompanied the mayor.

A bit disheveled as if they’d been traveling for some time, both wore clothes that were worn and stained. In spite of that, the fabric looked recently washed and their hair was combed.

“Yes?” Her question came out curt and abrupt, but she’d had quite enough of the assumptions regarding what she would and would not be doing without even being consulted. If they wanted to  _guess_ what she’d be doing with these visitors, she was going to make one of the men before her say it aloud while she glared at him.

“I, um, Miss Claire, these are the men who’ve come to take over the light-” began Mayor MacGilivray before Claire inserted herself into the conversation in a more proactive manner.

“It’s lovely to meet you gentlemen. Now, I’ve things to do with  _my_ light until this change actually takes place so you’ll excuse me?” She began to close the door but the mayor stopped her, beginning to look embarrassed.

“We think it best, since there’s no room at the boarding house, if they stay here at present, Claire,” he explained softly.

“And what of me? It’s  _my_ home. Where do you expect  _I’ll_ go?” she was seething now. She knew someone, probably several people in town actually, would be willing to give her a place to stay. It would be only for a short time and on their terms. But she’d had enough with everyone else deciding what was going to happen to her. She wouldn’t allow it, if she could help it.

“You’ll stay with the Petersons as planned until,” he paused and seemed to think better of whatever it was he was going to say. “Until further arrangements are made.”

With that he began to inch backwards away from the door. “I’ll go fetch the remainder of your luggage gentlemen. My sons and I will bring it from town. You stay here and get acquainted with the light. I’m sure Claire will show you about before she packs,” he nodded as he backed away, swiveled around, and walked as briskly as one could over the uneven rockery.

“I’m sorry for the somewhat cold welcome, but I’ve been faced with several hurdles as of late and wasn’t really expecting this to happen so abruptly,” she apologized, wringing her hands in frustration and anxiety while trying not to seem too weak.

“I didn’t hear either of your names. I’m Claire, and you are?” She extended her hand then and it was enveloped by the older man first.

“Murtagh Fitzgibbons Fraser, Miss. We didna mean to cause you any distress. We were told, my nephew and I, that we were needed to fill a post here for a man who’d passed on. I didna ken that there was someone still here, filling the role of keeper.” He shook her hand and released it, shaking his head in confusion.

“This is my nephew, James,” he jerked his head in the direction of the red-headed young man beside him who held out his hand as well.

“Miss Claire, ‘tis good to meet you,” he said. His blue eyes found hers immediately and she quickly let go of his hand as if she’d been shocked.

She nodded, dumbly, trying to catch up and figure out what had just happened in the last few moments.

“I suppose,” she faltered, flustered. “I suppose I ought to pack a few things if I’m to be displaced immediately.”

She was trying desperately not to take out all her frustration on the two men before her as it seemed they hadn’t any idea of the scope of the situation, but Murtagh spoke before she could even turn away.

“Lass, there’s the wee cottage out back that the lad and I will stay in until we work things out. Dinna fash yerself about packing or leaving.”

She turned to them, incredulous, “But that’s really just a shed! Uncle Lamb and I used it as storage!”

“Weel, it just doesna seem as if ye want to go, but if ye-”

“No!” she cut him off with a smile splitting her face. Both men smiled back at her then. “No, I just am confused, I suppose. The last week everyone has assumed they can just decide what to do with me, decide that I can’t do a job I’ve known how to do for ages,” she sighed. “I’d love to stay a while if we can make the shed a suitable spot for you to bide.”

“I suspect, if ye tell us where we might move things and where we could find a few supplies, we could have a solid start on it before the mayor comes back wi’ our things,” James said. “That way he’ll understand that it is we who have made this decision and it will stand for a time.”

“Far as I can tell, ye’ve done well, lass. We’ll stay in the cottage until things can be figured out more permanent-like.”

She gathered supplies for them to use, helping them move some things into the main house, and some things  _out_ so they would be able to use them instead. After she knew they were settling into a steady rhythm, she went in and made tea and found some food for them as well, guessing that they might be hungry after working a while.

They settled around the kitchen table to eat just as the mayor and his oldest son returned with a large trunk and a couple small bags.

“Mmm,” Murtagh grunted as MacGillivray swept into the house with hardly any announcement. He waved his hand casually. “Ye can put tha’ out in the wee cottage where the lad and I’ll be staying for now.”

“The, but, the cottage is not but a shed,” he sputtered.

“Tha’ may be so,” James chimed in. “But it’s come to our attention that this young woman, who has been running this light on her own, would be displaced by the likes of us. Neither my uncle nor I are comfortable forcing the lady from her home.” He tucked a piece of bread into his cheek and chewed, turning back to the company at the table, instead of the man in the doorway.

“I’ll be returning soon,” Mayor MacGillivray said with a sigh. “I can’t see that Claire will be able to stay here permanently with you both living in a shed, nor can she stay here on her own without approval to run the light,” he paused. “Which she _does not have_. So, I shall return soon, I’m certain. Good day,” he nodded, then turned and left.

Claire rose from her seat and went to watch out the window, pulling the lace curtain aside to see better. When she turned back, Murtagh and Jamie were watching her.

She wrung her hands again. It seemed to be becoming a habit.

When she turned back, her cheeks flushed, realizing that she was being observed by the two men.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized for what seemed like the hundredth time in the past couple of hours. “I’m just trying to process everything that’s happened.” She wiped the palms of her hands over her apron, drying the clamminess.

“Ye dinna have to apologize, Claire,” James looked at her. “‘Tis the both of us who’ve come to take yer home. Or  _not_ take it yet, I suppose? I dinna ken what we’ll do. Uncle?” He glanced to his left at the scruffy older man, hoping for some reassuring answers.

“Weel, I dinna think we can make any good decisions being all rushed-like, ye ken? So,” he placed his big hands flat on the table before them. “I think we ought to spruce up the cottage so we can stay there. And we’ll make sure that we help Claire take care of the light and the grounds until the rest is decided. Much of it doesna lie wi’ us anyhow.”

“But you’ve come to work,” she protested before she could stop herself, knowing that there would need to be a choice that would end up benefiting only herself or only the men. “And if I’m still here keeping the light, you’re not technically filling the post.”

“Can ye keep me fed?” asked James, a smile gracing his handsome face. “As long and ye make enough to put food on the table, Murtagh and I will work here and around town. We’ll bide for a time and figure it out from there.”

“I think I can make sure that there’s enough food for us all, yes,” Claire laughed.

“Then, for now, it’s settled,” Murtagh stated.


	7. VII

                                                            

It took only until the next morning before Claire’s resolve to keep them well-fed was challenged. She’d woken early to extinguish the light and clean the lenses hearing her uncle’s soothing voice in her mind the whole time.

_To clean the reflectors, Claire, we must do the following according to the regulations. He began to quote to her, the cadence of his voice steady and low._

_“‘Dust with a soft cloth, rub with buff skin lightly dusted with authorized powder kept in double muslin bag, then rub lightly with a second buff skin and finally a third before passing over reflector with light quick circular strokes,’” he paused. “Note, Claire, that the manual plainly states and logic dictates that stove gas will tarnish the lenses and reflectors.”_

_“Of course, Uncle Lamb,” she replied, as if she found the observation the most obvious thing in the world._

Now, she repeated his words back in her mind, recalling the time they spent with one another as well as the safety and reassurance she found in her uncle’s presence.

She stoked the fire in the hearth and made coffee, immediately pouring a cup for herself before beginning anything more. She would have had a piece of toast spread with strawberry preserves but she knew, after their supper last night, that the men tended toward heartier fare. Off to the ice box she went, fetching some meat to go along with some eggs  _and_ the toast. It seemed as if she’d need to take another trip into town today since they were rapidly depleting their food stores.

A knock at the door paused her in the middle of what she was doing.

“Claire? May I come in?” The young, red-haired man stood before her on the stoop. He smiled pleasantly, blue eyes twinkling.

“Of course! You’re staying here now and I want you to feel welcome in spite of the confusion,” she encouraged.

“Och, to be certain, ye’ve made me feel nothing but welcome. I just didna want to intrude,” he replied.

Even as she stood there watching him speak, one of her restrained curls broke loose, tumbling toward her face.  _He_ had curls as well, though they were looser and closer cropped.

“Ye’ve got a bit of hair right…” he almost touched her curl before snatching his hand back, cheeks flushing a bright red.

“Oh,” she sputtered, unexpectedly flustered by his attention. “Oh, it’s, they’re always doing that, my curls,” she babbled.

The sound of tumbling rocks broke through their self-conscious distraction, signaling Murtagh’s approach.

“Why are ye wee gomerels standin’ ‘round here? We’ve a busy day if we’re to set things straight. Let’s eat and get on wi’ it!”

They devoured every morsel Claire produced, leaving nothing behind when they left to find supplies to fix the shed. Claire poured herself another cup of coffee before cleaning the kitchen and beginning a mental list of supplies that she would need if she were to feed and keep house for all of them. There were few things that she was certain of at the moment aside from one fact she was beginning to find joy in: She was no longer alone.

* * *

 

Though there were certain joys and comforts to be found in sharing the tiny peninsula of land with Murtagh and Jamie, there was an undercurrent of urgency that could still be felt at times. With things ultimately still unresolved, she felt as if she could never fully settle.

She left the lighthouse somewhat reluctantly these last few days. Before her uncle’s death she’d been able to come and go as she pleased, always knowing that she’d return to safety and security and  _home_. Now when she left, the idea teased at the back of her mind that she might not be  _allowed_ to return, that those in charge of the town or those leading the lighthouse commission might not permit her to return and remain. But she left, knowing that there were tasks to be done, reminding herself that Murtagh and James wouldn’t allow anything too abrupt to happen to her.

Dr. Beaton had asked if she’d come along with him and assist him in treating the wounds of a young man who’d hurt himself while out hunting. The family lived at the edge of town and Claire mentally planned out her day accordingly, walking through the steps of helping Dr. Beaton, stopping at Mrs. Crook’s, and finally stopping at the general store.

At the point where the beach turned from sand dunes to beach grass, Claire stopped to empty her boots of the detritus that rolled around under the soles of her feet, pouring sand and bits of broken shell back onto the ground.

“Claire!” the Reverend Randall called to her.

She was beginning to loathe these moments where she was forced into awkward interactions every time she came into the town.

“Hello, Reverend,” she replied, a bit coldly, attempting to keep her distance both physically and emotionally.

He came close enough to walk by her side, bumping her elbow, even though she didn’t slow down for him.

“I wondered if you’d considered what I said the other day? If you had given things any further thought…” he trailed off as she glowered at him.

“I’ve been a trifle busy, as you well know. I would have had my home taken right out from under me were it not for the generosity of the men who came to fill  _my_ post. I understand completely what you’re offering me, but my desire, as I’ve said, is to stay and continue what my uncle taught me to do.”

He stepped a bit apart from her as they continued the brisk walk toward Dr. Beaton’s, clearly taken aback by her assertiveness, but the truth was, she felt as if she had nothing to lose by speaking out and nothing to gain by her silence in the matter.

Before, she could have waited, postponed her response to his advances. Now, there was no time for her to wait for his interest to wane, or be refocused onto someone else. Now, there was no time for her to waste proving her strength or her own merit.

“I think, in time, you’ll come to see that what I’m offering you is stability, Claire. I’m offering you a life with me,” he reminded her.

“But would a life with you allow me to be myself, or would I need to be someone else for you?” she probed. “Because I don’t want to leave the lighthouse, or leave my work with Dr. Beaton and Mrs. Crook. I don’t want to stop researching and learning. Those are part of who I am.”

“You’ll find, Claire,” he said a bit more forcefully. “That you’ll not necessarily have the options you think you will.”

“I’ll find a way, Reverend,” she seethed, beyond caring now. “If people hadn’t intervened, I’d be taking care of things myself already. Good day!” She stopped to face him as she bade him goodbye, meaning for him to see that she was completely finished with his foolish conversation, then she stalked off hoping with all her heart that he wouldn’t follow.

So much of what he said  _was_ true though.

She hadn’t realized how much her uncle’s mere presence had sheltered her from the world. He’d always thought she could achieve anything so  _he_ had fought the battle to educate her further, to challenge her mind, and to gain her a position with the only trained physician in town. He’d known that she could take care of herself and do a job, to keep house and to run the light. But to those who didn’t truly know her like Uncle Lamb had, it seemed inconceivable that a young woman, still just a  _girl_ in the eyes of some, could possibly be able to handle that responsibility.

Rounding the corner of the closest clapboard building, she leaned against the rough wall, breathing hard. She felt ill with the realization that without her uncle to give her status, she couldn’t make her own way. In order to survive she’d need to turn either to the Petersons or to Reverend Randall. Soon, James and Murtagh would take over the light completely as their arrangement could only last so long. Then, Claire would be forced to choose.

Just as she was about to rein in the tears burning the back of her eyes and the feel of cotton rammed down the back of her scratchy throat, she heard a voice.

“Sorcha? Claire?”

She quickly swiped the back of her hand across her eyes, hoping to remove any trace of her tears lest they be perceived as weakness.

“James, hello,” she managed.

“‘Tis no’ the first time I’ve noticed the reverend speaking of ye or to ye in tha’ way. Are ye his intended then? Meant to be wed to him?”

He looked concerned. Maybe sad. She couldn’t rightly tell through her own myriad of emotions. She only knew that she felt safe confiding in him.

“I’m  _never_ going to marry him, though he seems to think that I will. And before you remind me that I’ve not a single way to support myself or survive without the help of a man, like everyone else already had,” she waved a finger in his direction, eyes blazing, “You can just stay quiet. I’m  _not_ helpless.”

“I never thought ye were,” he whispered. “But Claire, if Murtagh and I stay and take over the light, wha’ will ye do?” He stepped closer, but instead of facing her in confrontation as has the reverend, he leaned against the wall beside her, his shoulder bumping into her own. With her bony shoulder she felt his muscles tense through the fabric of his shirt, the warmth emanating from him.

“I am no’ asking to scare ye, ‘tis just that for some reason, it’s important to me that yer safe and well,” he paused. “And  _happy_.”

He blushed.

“And will ye call me Jamie? Tis no’ but my Mam who called James, aye?”

She felt a funny twist in her belly, like a spark, every time he spoke to her in that way. His tone was always level. He acted like she was intelligent and capable, as if her opinions and feelings mattered.

“What I’d like, if I could choose for myself, would be to stay in the lighthouse and do those tasks. It’s my home and I’ve done it all before. But I suppose if I couldn’t stay, I would want to learn more from Dr. Beaton or Mrs. Crook, though I don’t know where I’d live then and I doubt that I’d be able to support myself. Maybe I’d be able to move south along the coast to one of the larger towns and continue to learn about medicine? Then I might be able to find lodging as well, but I just don’t know.”

She looked away from him, feeling as if she may have overshared. As much as she wanted to stay, she also didn’t want Murtagh and Jamie to be without work either.

“Weel, ‘tis good that we’re all together for now then. We’ll all do our parts to make things run smoothly. Mayhap they’ll all see we’re better off this way.” His optimism gave her something to hold onto, though she was still hesitant to trust it entirely.

“I must be on my way, Jamie. If I’m to help Dr. Beaton I need to go now. But I suppose I’ll see you at home this evening?”

She hadn’t intended to make the last bit into a question, hadn’t intended to imply it mattered  _that_ much. But she had. Because it did.

“If ye dinna mind, I’ll meet you at the edge of town before supper to walk back home wi’ you so as to avoid certain persons,” he raised his eyebrows and wiggled them causing her to smile at last. “We’re neither one of us alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always (literally, ALWAYS) thanks go to happytoobservenolongerdistant on tumblr for her patience in reading all of this when it was chaos and for making it work <3


	8. VIII

                                                                    

It was soothing to work with her hands. Healing others healed a bit of her own soul. When she arrived at the house she didn’t bother to wait for the doctor. The family knew her, had known her since she was a small child, and permitted her entry, even offering her refreshments once inside.

“Claire? Mama said I can’t watch when you’re fixin’ Papa, but how will I learn how to be a good nurse if I can’t watch you?” little Patience asked with great concern in her large grey eyes.

“Well, you’ve a good deal left to learn in school and much you can learn just from reading books and other publications. I have plenty that, once you’ve learned to read better, you’ll be able to read as well. Come now, you can brew these herbs in boiling water with me,” she extended a packet of small dried leaves. “That will help your papa and you won’t even need to be in the room when we’re working!”

“But how will I read your books if you aren’t here?” inquired the girl.

“Whatever do you mean? You’ll come to the lighthouse and you’ll ask. It isn’t that far to go,” Claire shook her head at the silly comment.

“But Mama and Papa said that there’s a new lighthouse keeper and that you wouldn’t be able to stay.  _Are_ you staying then?” Dimples appeared in the girl’s rosy cheeks. Though Claire’s heart had lurched to a standstill she took a breath, assured herself that her heart was in fact beating, and answered the child before her.

“I don’t really know yet, but I think I’m staying in the lighthouse after all,” came her reply before she knew what she was saying. “What I mean to say is that I’m trying to work things out so that I’m able to at any rate.”

“Claire?” the doctor called to her. “Let’s see to this now.”

Leaving Patience behind, Claire hurried to Dr. Beaton’s aid.

They looked at the wound together. The stitches were healing nicely and there was no sign of infection, only the pinkness of new healing. Dr. Beaton was quite pleased with how things were progressing.

“Though the injury was  _not_ small in the least, the recovery seems to be quite straightforward. I’ll be turning your care over to my assistant, Miss Beauchamp, to see you through the remainder of this process.”

Claire looked over to the doctor, startled, but he continued confidently.

“She’s well trained in what needs to be done and I’m certain her abilities will see you cared for, sir.”

The words of the old doctor warmed her heart and gave her a sense of encouragement she hadn’t felt before. He knew what he was doing, turning this case over to her. If she was the one who attended this case, they’d pay her. She was certain it wouldn’t be in cash, but she could use goods as well. She nearly clapped her hands in giddiness. Also, there was the prestige. Maybe she shouldn’t call it “prestige” yet, but being recognized as a healer on her own would allow her more freedom and independence, would lend her credibility.

She left the house that day with new responsibilities, a sense of hopefulness, and a chicken for their dinner.

* * *

 

“Jamie,” she called, as she waved one of her delicate, talented hands.

He stood there waiting for her just as he’d said he would when they spoke earlier that day. Tall and broad shouldered, he had a smile on his face and waved back at her in greeting. The sun glinted off his thick red curls and cast a ruddy glow about him.

“I’ve some meat for our supper,” she explained as she drew closer. “And we ought to pick up some things from the store, then we can head back home.”

“It sounds as if you had a busy day. It went well for ye then?” He reached out his hands to carry her burden which she transferred over gladly, shaking out her arms.

“Yes. Dr. Beaton tasked me with seeing one of his patients on my own. I believe it will give me the opportunity to prove myself capable so that those around town might actually believe I could make my own way.”

The words tumbled from her mouth in excitement, but she watched his face fall as she said them and wanted immediately to take it back. If she were to prove herself able to remain independent, she would be proving that there was no need for Jamie and his uncle to stay. That wasn’t what she  _meant_ by things, not at all. But it kept coming back to the fact that unless they could figure some way around it, if the men stayed Claire would need to go and if Claire stayed, the men would need to make their way somewhere else.

“Maybe this could work for all of us,” she added hopefully, watching him.

“Weel, for now we’re all workin’ on making some progress, aye? Yer shed will soon be a small house wi’ the plans Murtagh’s made and the supplies we’ve gathered. Let’s go to the store and get what we need then be on our way.”

He comfortably took her elbow and steered her in the direction of the store, comfortably talking as they went. Their chats had come to reveal much about who Claire was.

Jamie had come to realize that tangibly Claire had lost her uncle and would soon lose her home, but emotionally she had lost her inspiration and stability. She had told him, on their walks to and from town and around the house in the morning, of the many ways her Uncle Lamb had paved the way for her work with the doctor and midwife, how his teaching had prepared her for further learning, how his provision of books and such had given her a solid foundation. The loss of him went deeper than she usually let on.

He wished to protect Claire and set her free at the same time. And it seemed she could feel it in the way he was with her.

It was the  _way_ he did it, gently clasping her elbow and leading her, that made it feel natural. When the reverend was near it it all felt forced. When the mayor tried to tell her what to do, it seemed to be to the benefit of everyone else, not her. But when Jamie led her in a way that she’d assumed would make her feel powerless, she instead felt sheltered and protected but still free.

He held the door as she entered, following behind her. Gillian immediately appeared in front of them.

“Are you the new lighthouse keeper then? The one who’s taking the job from Claire?” she demanded then paused, looking him over. “You seem young. What makes everyone think you’re more capable than she who grew up in the place?”

Jamie looked taken aback by her forwardness, and Claire was just about to step to his defense when he spoke.

“I’m Jamie Fraser and my uncle is the one sent to take over the light. I dinna think tha’ Claire  _needs_ anyone to run the light at all, but that isna my decision,” he raised his brows and nodded slowly. “If I were to say, I think she could manage on her own.” He shrugged then brushed past Gillian, nodding to Claire, leaving her to catch up later.

“Is he-” began Gillian.

“Stop,” Claire hissed before her friend could ask any foolishness. “I don’t understand what I want anymore or how I’ll get it. But Jamie is kind. He cares what happens to me.” She stopped and wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing them for comfort more than warmth. “And even if that means  _he_ doesn’t have a job or a place with his uncle, I still believe that he’d do what was best for  _me_ instead.”

“So he’s good then?” Gillian asked gently, no longer goading or prodding. “He’s kind?”

“And more.”


	9. IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a little...hitch...in the plan.

                                                             

“Ye got food then? While ye were in town?” 

Murtagh was grilling the two “wee fools” upon arriving home to find them both sitting in front of the fire with cups of tea in hand, talking and laughing as Jamie told a story of his dogs. 

He’d had two beloved, and  _very large and unruly_ , dogs that had caused no end of trouble as they’d followed him around on his childhood adventures. Claire had not grown up with pets of her own, and was thoroughly enjoying the insight regarding the years and experiences that had molded Jamie into who he was.

She’d only just mentioned her uncle’s continual postponing of getting a cat of her own, a long-held desire, when Murtagh began his questioning.

“We got food both at the mercantile and I got some in exchange for the work I did helping Dr. Beaton as well. We have plenty for the time being,” Claire explained calmly, pouring the grouchy man a cup of tea for himself.

“And the roof? Is tha’ patched? The hole in the floorboards?” Bushy eyebrows rose and he glowered at them.

“Aye. I got the materials first thing this morn and took care of both,” Jamie smiled at his uncle placatingly. “I’ve enough of the long boards from the lumber mill for the other project we talked about as well.”

“Other project?” questioned Claire, immediately on the defensive again. It was still  _her_ light. Still  _her_ home.

“We thought,” Jamie explained reaching calmly, putting his hand on the back of Claire’s own to still her. “Tha’ ye might like it if the main house and the wee shed were joined. We could bring them together wi’ a hallway and put another room o’er there,” he gestured first to one end of the room them the other.

“We dinna want to put ye out of yer home, lass,” Murtagh stated, dryly. “But until we figure out what we’re all goin’ to do, we’ve got to make this work fer all of us. Aye? And we thought, regardless of how it all turns out, a house wi’ more than a couple real rooms would be a benefit.”

She nodded and settled back into her chair. It was true. She and Uncle Lamb hadn’t needed much, so they hadn’t ever created more. 

The home portion of the lighthouse consisted of one main room. That was both their sitting room and kitchen. There was one small bedroom off the larger room, wide doorway covered only by a curtain. Uncle Lamb, the moment she’d come to live with him, had given her the bedroom. He had a small bed that was near the fireplace, close to the front door so that he could light a lamp and go up the tower if necessary. It had always been small but had never  _felt_ small, had never permitted much privacy, but had always felt private enough. Until now.

Jamie and Murtagh were still staying in the cottage together. To call it a cottage was generous, actually. Her Uncle had always laughed when anyone called it thus, prefering to be honest and call it a shed. She felt guilty for having them out there and staying in relative comfort herself, but every time she offered to open up the house to them, Murtagh said it wasn’t proper.

Her eyes were drawn to Jamie as he pulled a battered piece of paper from his sporran and unfolded it, pressing the creases flat as he extended it to her.

It was her light, with an actual  _home_ attached to it, drawn carefully. A place to live that wasn’t just pieced together because it was just convenient enough, but was a home meant for a  _family_. A family that would live together and stay together.

Just as her heart welled with joy at the thought, it also flooded with grief. How could they all possibly stay in this temporary situation? What would happen next, either to her or the two men who she was coming to trust?

Murtagh seemed to sense her internal turmoil and, slowly, began to explain.

“Until we could figure out what will be done, you’d have the room here,” he pointed to the sketch. “The lad and I would use this space.” Once more he gestured, indicating the spot on the paper. 

“I’m certain it won’t sit well with the town though. The lighthouse keeper situation still needs to be resolved officially. I’m to sign the contract with the commission next week and I’m certain the town willna tolerate the impropriety of a maiden such as yourself staying wi’ two men such as us.”

Claire laughed at his description in spite of herself. She’d always thought of herself as a child when her uncle had been alive, but the truth was plain. She was a young woman. She was being pursued by the reverend. Regardless of how  _that_ turned out, nobody in town would continue to seek her services medically if she became known for her loose morals, the young “maiden” as Murtagh had said, living with two strange men.

“Dinna fash, Claire,” Jamie soothed. “We’ll figure out a way.”

“Better figure it out quickly, lad. Remember, I’ve one week before I sign that contract, three days before I leave and things are put into motion. Even if I didn’t sign, they’d not let Claire be the keeper.” His gruff features contrasted against the kindness in his eyes. “There’s not to do but more forward.”

* * *

“Has anybody asked what  _you_ want?” The question came suddenly from Jamie who was walking beside her as they made their way home from town two days later. She’d been helping Mrs. Crook, the midwife, follow up the day after a young woman who lived not far outside of town had given birth. Barely older than Claire, she had already been pregnant three times, the first being a sickly little girl who had died before her first birthday and the recent birth being rather perilous as well according to the midwife.

It was not lost on her that were she forced into marrying the reverend, she could be the one with three pregnancies in rapid succession. She could be the one home, alone with the babies, while her husband was out working or traveling to nearby towns. Her entire life would be decided by someone other than herself. She’d have little or no say in the matter.

“No,” she whispered. “Nobody has. Not since you first asked me and I tried,” her hands fluttered in frustration. “ _Tried_ to voice my thoughts.”

The silence stretched between them until Jamie broke it once more.

“Weel?” He lurched to a stop, looking at her directly as she turned and met his gaze. “What would yer choice be in the matter now. Ye ken we cannae put things back the way they were, so how would you go from here?”

“Does it really matter?” she demanded. “If I can’t have things the way they were before?” She knew she sounded petty, but it was infuriating to think of the freedom she’d had when protected by her uncle and the loss of control over her future that she was facing now. She sighed and apologized. “I know you’re trying to help, Jamie. I’m sorry.”

“There’s naught to be sorry for, Sorcha. ‘Tis just something that we can face together instead of you alone, as ye have been. I’ll listen.”

He had paid attention, listened to her, since the day he’d arrived.

She began haltingly. “I suppose, what I’d honestly want to have happen…”

* * *

Murtagh had left the next day before the sun rose. He was off to sign the contract that would give him control of the lighthouse in place of Lambert Beauchamp. Jamie had seen him off, while Claire had pretended to sleep, choosing to ignore the fact that the only home she remembered ever having was being signed away to someone else. 

Two days passed in a reasonably comfortable new routine, if one could look past what was inevitably coming. She and Jamie would eat breakfast together before he would walk her into town, where they’d part ways to do their own tasks. In the late afternoon or early evening, they would meet once more to return home, making and eating supper together and passing the time comfortably chatting or sitting before the fire in companionable silence before bed.

As they walked, sat by the firelight, or trimmed the wicks and cleaned lenses of the lighthouse, Claire shared her dreams while Jamie listened. 

She wanted enough medical knowledge that she could capably care for the people of the region, someday in Dr. Beaton’s absence. She wished to stay at the lighthouse forever, it being her home. 

Jamie shared that he wished for a home of his own instead of going from place to place and never having an anchor. He wished to make a place of his own and to provide for and offer stability to those whom he loved. He wished to live a life that would have made his parents proud.

Possibly, for a time, things could remain the same. Jamie and Murtagh could build the new portions of the home, she could continue working in town with Mrs. Crook and Dr. Beaton, and Murtagh could officially take over the lighthouse without forcing Claire away. For a short time, things would probably work. But it couldn’t be permanent.

Claire knew her honor would continually come into question were she to continue living with the two men. Murtagh had been right on that score. And the Reverend would continue to pursue her hand in marriage as well. That was really the only solution to allow her her to stay in the town, though it wouldn’t be  _good_ for her.

It was that final fact that threw things into a spiral of action.

“Claire?” the voice came from outside the door, early in the morning while she and Jamie drank tea before smooring the fire and going into town. “Claire, are you there?” Gillian’s voice came, muffled, through the insulation of the door and the noise of the surf.

Jamie rose, gesturing to Claire to go ahead and stay seated, and went to answer the door.

“Gillian, good morn’ to ye then. Won’t ye come in?” 

She bobbed her head quickly and darted inside, immediately throwing herself into the chair Jamie had vacated ony seconds ago.

“Claire, I wanted to come and tell you directly. I couldn’t believe that it was true and had to come ask for myself,” she prattled on.

“You had to come and ask what?” demanded Claire.

“If you’d changed your mind,” continued Gillian. “About marrying the reverend. He’s gone and told everyone in town that your wedding will be this Sunday. You’ve no real say in the matter anyway, but now that he’s pushed the matter, it has to happen. There’s no reason for it not to.”

“Aye, there’s reason for it not to!” Jamie spoke from behind them, his eyes blazing. “Claire may be a lass, but she deserves a say in this and every time she’s had an opinion it’s been brushed aside. The entire town may say her opinion doesna matter, but it does, ken?”

The two young women sat up straighter, Gillian in surprise and Claire in pride, eyes sparkling.

“But it  _doesn’t_ matter. Don’t you see? It matters to Claire, to you, to me. But it doesn’t matter to the reverend and the town respects his decisions. Unless there’s a really good reason for her not to marry the him, a reason that  _everyone_ will respect, it’s what will happen come Sunday,” continued Gillian. “So, tell me. Is there a reason why she shouldn’t marry him day after next?”

“Because she’ll be marrying me.”

Gillian’s eyes widened and her mouth gaped in a fish-like motion, opening and closing  wordlessly. 

Jamie nodded once and turned to the door, grabbing his coat.

“Tell me when you’re ready to go into town. I’ll be ready, aye?” He bobbed his head in Claire’s direction making the tousled curls on his head fall forward.

She nodded a bit dazedly and watched his broad-shouldered form head out the door shutting it firmly behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Thank you to those of you who are still reading, liking, and reblogging.The whole “write for yourself” thing is easy until the rubber hits the road and the story you adore is a little...less loved than your level of adoration for it lol! Thank you also to @happytoobservenolongerdistant (on Tumblr) who always squeals over each chapter as if she didn’t help me clean them up. Thanks also to @walkinginland (also on Tumblr) who sprinkles joy like confetti (and who probably could find the link to the whole fic in the library chat...). And thanks to those of you who have kept up along the way, those of you who just joined in, or those of you who take a peek and try to remember to catch up later (whenever that is). I appreciate you all!


	10. X

                                                                  

“I overstepped, said too much and took the choice from ye,” Jamie was looking at the ground as they walked. “But I couldna think of a way to keep ye safe and allow ye to be who ye are.”

Clearly  _he_ was concerned. He hadn’t spoken to Gillian any further but had turned and abruptly walked out the door, taking care of the chores until Claire was ready to walk into town. Now he walked with more distance between them than he normally would have done, particularly in the past few days. He felt as if he’d taken the choice of the matter from her instead of defending her from the injustice of it, though that hadn’t been his intent.

_She_ felt as though she‘d been rescued, perfectly and wonderfully, by someone whom she had grown to trust. And she also felt selfish that all the gain was on her part: protection, freedom to continue to live the same life, stability. 

Love.

Because for some reason, she didn’t doubt that he had come to love her in the brief time since her uncle’s passing. He demonstrated it gently. It was never overpowering. It crept up on her. But it  _was_ love, however fragile and new. She felt it too.

“I dinna want to be like the men in town, makin’ choices and forcin’ you into situations you’d no’ choose,” he shrugged, still not looking at her. “Talk to me, Sorcha.” He begged, softly.

“ _I_ don’t want to be the one to force  _you_ ,” she replied carefully.

“What?” he stopped where he was and turned to her, surprise clearly etched on his face. 

“Jamie, if you marry me, it’s not something that will just impact you now. You  _will_ be protecting me now, but you’re own hopes and dreams would change paths because of me. And I wouldn’t want to force that on you any more than you would want to watch  _me_ forced into something.” 

Her eyes filled with tears as she spoke, knowing that he would do anything to protect her, but also knowing that if the cost was that someday he’d resent her, it wasn’t worth it. She held her breath, beginning to realize the feelings she’d come to have, realizing the hope she had already pinned on having him by her side forever.

Jamie’s face bore an incredulous expression when their gazes met again. “I wouldna have thought it possible to find a lass whose ideas for the future matched my own even half as well as you match me, Claire. ‘Tis I who would be gaining much from this, rather than just yerself.”

“What do you mean?” She was one part disbelieving, one part needing reassurance, and one final part utter confusion, each warring for dominance in her mind.

“If we had years, I’d court ye properly, show how much I respect who you are and what ye want to become. I’d bring ye new herbs to try in yer treatments and such, clear out that bit of land for a garden bed, make the lighthouse into our home. Maybe even a home for our family,” he pushed on through all of that without a breath, as if he was afraid that stopping would give her a chance to argue against him. 

”I gain because yer dreams are mine and, I may be too bold in saying this, but I dinnae think I am, my dreams might be yours as well.” His voice pitched as though he was asking her a question, hoping that what he said was true.

Finally, he paused in his speaking. She continued to watch him and to listen, to think and to feel.

“I would show you tha’ I love you. I maybe dinnae have time to prove something like that right now, but I mean to use the rest of my life proving my love to you over and over again. For now I hope that at least there is honesty and a trust between us, aye?”

“I  _do_ trust you Jamie. Completely.”  _And I think I love you too_  was on the cusp of tumbling from her mouth in rambled words. 

Boldly, she stepped closer to link her arm in his as they walked, her side lining up against him as if she was the piece of a puzzle created to fit there.

“Also, I  _do_ have questions,” she continued. “Could you tell me again...how you’ll prove that you love me?” She raised her eyebrows as he smiled and began to talk, telling her again of his plans to prove himself.

“‘Tis real, Claire,” he finally said. “It may be early, too soon to say it. Or it may be new and fragile. But it’s no less real because of that. I do love ye. I did as soon as ye shared yer hopes and dreams wi’ me.”

She pressed her lips together in a shy smile, a warmth building inside her, as she attempted to formulate one final question.

Though it was love, it was demonstrated completely selflessly. Perhaps, Claire pondered, that was exactly  _what_ made it love. She knew that love wouldn’t demand she try to be somebody she wasn’t. Love didn’t force you away from the place you loved. Oh, one might choose those things for someone they loved. But love didn’t impose those things upon somebody else.

Her question burst forth then.

“But how can we possibly get married in time?”

* * *

It all turned out to be much easier than Claire would have thought. Maybe it was easier than it  _should_ have been. 

They couldn’t get married in town. There was not a single chance that the Reverend would have done that for them, nor any chance that anybody else in town would have stood for it.  _Some_ resistance was to be expected, even though their plan ought to have been completely acceptable, because it would confuse the plans of those who  _liked_ to be in charge. Of everything.

But even in the brief time that Jamie and Murtagh had been in the region, they’d many people and had begun to build trust. Several miles to the north, Jamie said, there was another small town with a parson who would marry them.

Claire woke that morning to the fire already burning warmly and a kettle on it beginning to boil. Jamie was nowhere in sight but she knew he must have been nearby. She got dressed and peeked outside only to see him standing and looking out over the gently rolling waves.

She approached him wordlessly and saw him shift, realizing that she was coming.

_“I saw dawn creep across the sky,_

_And all the gulls go flying by._

_I saw the sea put on its dress_

_Of blue mid-summer loveliness,_

_And heard the trees begin to stir_

_Green arms of pine and juniper._

_I heard the wind call out and say:_

_‘Get up, my dear, it is today.’”_

He looked over his shoulder and smiled at her. “‘Tis something I remember my da saying,” he revealed, looking bashful. “I got you something, Sorcha. Fer our wedding day. I ken it isnae practical nor is it a ring or, well...” he turned completely, cradling something near his body in his coat.

If it hadn’t let out the smallest mewling sound one could have assumed it was merely a ball of fur.

“A kitten? Oh, Jamie!”

As he said, it wasn’t a ring to signify their union, it wasn’t a dress to be fancy and fine on their special day. Instead, what he was giving her showed that he had listened to her, not just in the huge things, but in her stories of trivial aspects as well.

“Oh, Jamie,” she said again, scooping the small grey kitten from his grasp and holding the tiny creature against her own chest where the fluffy body vibrated with contentment. “I love him.  _Thank you_.” 

She looked up and put one hand at the back of his neck, pulling him down closer for a kiss. 

He blushed and muttered, “‘Tis nothing.”

“But it is,” she insisted, reminding him that is showed his attentiveness to her words and her wants. “Let’s show him his new home.” She reached out once again, this time taking his hand. “I’ll get ready and then we can be on our way. We ought to get an early start.”  _Without anyone from town impeding us_  she added silently.

“Aye. Best to be on our way soon, afore everyone kens what we’re up to,” he smirked playfully at her, as if they were off on some adventure or playful scavenger hunt and not off to be wed.

She slid on a rock and Jamie’s other arm shot out to the small of her back. The kitten let out a tiny mewling noise and they laughed together.

“‘Tis all right now, wee one,” Jamie told the tiny cat. “Yer home now. C’mere, Sorcha.” He gently tugged her to the shed instead of the main house. “I’ve one more thing for you.”

“I’m feeling a bit spoiled already. You’re giving me so much,” she said softly.

“I’ve only given a fraction of what ye deserve,” he argued. “Come. A bride ought to have a new dress.”

In the little shed, spread flat across his cot so as not to become wrinkled, lay a new dress. Simple, lovely, complementary to her physical attributes in every way.

“I had help wi’ this, being the wedding was such short notice.” He looked aside, abashed. “Gillian deserves a good bit of thanks for this as well.”

“It’s lovely,” she breathed, pausing. “I have nothing to give you, Jamie. Nothing at all!” Her eyebrows knit together with doubt.

“And every day from here out I’ll remind you that  _you_ are a gift to me. Or did ye forget that already?”

He reached out and grabbed the edge of her shawl, tugging her closer and into his embrace, the kitten first protesting but then snuggling. He set his chin atop her head in the curls that were springing about and stayed there for a moment, just being.

“Come. Let’s get ready to go,” he chided.

“You’re the one holding on to me,” she teased, poking his ribs playfully and pulling apart. She scooped the dress into her arms. “I’ll get dressed and then we can be on our way.” She looked back over her shoulder as she left the shed and saw Jamie gently tuck the kitten into the front of his coat, saying something under his breath to the little ball of fluff before beginning to tidy up the small space. “Once I’m ready you can bring him into the house so he will stay all cozy and warm while we’re away.

“Aye,” he nodded with a smile as she went to prepare for the day ahead.


	11. XI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter (the last aside from the epilogue) has the wedding and what follows. Not too graphic at all but a little more so than usual because hey, it’s their wedding night! A huge shout-out goes to @happytoobserve who reread the chapter when I freaked out (and added loads!) and needed someone to help make it fit with the same quality as the rest of the fic!

                                                            

The wedding had been a simple affair and had gone off without a hitch. As Jamie had anticipated, the parson had been more than willing to help them. Upon hearing their story, and watching the way they stood close to one another in a protective sort of manner, he had agreed to marry them that day. They were young and they didn’t know one another all that well, but it was plain to see that they trusted one another. They were both whip smart and both dedicated and hard working. They would work to know each other, strive to grow closer, be determined to build a life with one another. 

Claire had appeared to all, not just her groom, like a ray of light that entered the dim church, glowing with joy and anticipation. Jamie had stood tall, red hair gleaming in the candle light, and had taken Claire’s hands -trembling slightly- in his own, saying the vows that made her his wife in the eyes of God and the church.

Now, many long hours later and back at home, Claire sat on the bed,  _their_ bed, nervously fidgeting, trying to figure out the best course of action.  _Any_ course of action, because all of a sudden the ramifications of their recent actions hit her.

_Jamie_. He was still the same dashing young man who he’d been all along. It may have been his appearance, red hair curling at the nape of his neck, strength you could see when he lifted the wood to build things or when he mounted a horse, an articulate and intelligent manner. But it was how he treated her with dignity and respect, how he handled her gently even when he knew she could manage on her own if she must. A warmth started low in her belly as she thought of him and their future. 

Jamie leaned against the door, watching her. It was he who broke the awkward silence.

“You dinna need to be afraid of me,” he said softly. “I wasna going to jump ye.”

She laughed in spite of herself, cheeks filling with color.

“I didn’t think you would.” She knew he wouldn’t touch her until or unless she invited him. Invited him to touch her or do considerably more… which she was now considering with growing appeal. “Would you like to sit down?” she patted the bed beside her as she spoke and he moved to her side.

Somewhat tentatively he reached out and took her small hand in his own. “Are you scared as well?” she whispered.

“Aye. That’s why I’m holdin’ your hand; to keep my own from shaking. And ‘tis a good idea to touch while we talk and make things easier. We’ve much to say.”

“We’ve a lifetime to say it though, right? To figure this out? To know one another?” She questioned, eyebrows raised and a more peaceful smile gracing her face as they settled in their nearness.

“Aye.”

It did make things easier, the touching. They spoke as night fell, nearly forgetting the beacon of light that was their responsibility.

Together they climbed the spiral stairs, Claire trailing a hand behind her to bring Jamie, her  _husband_ , along. When she lit the wick of the beacon’s light, shadows danced in the falling evening. A soft breeze rose from the waters below as waves ebbed and flowed in a soothing repetition. Jamie reached up and wrapped one of her straying curls around his finger, tucking it away from her face. She hardly realized how close they were standing, face to face and bodies lightly touching, barely any space between them.

And then there was no space at all. She stood on her toes, put her hands on the back of his neck to draw him down closer, and kissed him. His eyes flew wide in surprise as she leaned in once more and this time stayed there, seeking, probing, and withdrawing slightly breathless. 

She whispered to him then, her voice just loud enough to be heard over the surf.

“It’s awfully late. Maybe we should go to bed.”

“To bed? Or to sleep?” He cocked a quizzical eyebrow and the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Well…” Claire’s voice trailed off, half with realization and half innuendo.

“Either way, you’re no’ intending to sleep in your gown, are ye?” he asked, in his usual practical manner.

“Well, no,” she paused. “I suppose not.”

He spun around and led the way down the stairs so abruptly that a giggle escaped her lips and she followed, stumbling, until they reached their room.

“Come here and I’ll help ye wi’ the laces and such.” His hands did indeed tremble briefly as he began to undress her. He lost some of his self-consciousness, though, in the struggle with the dozens of tiny hooks that attached the bodice letting out a triumphant “ha!” at the completion of the task.

“My turn,” was all she said when she grabbed his belt to pull him closer and undress him, surprised by her growing eagerness and arousal.

He reached out to her quickly and then lifted her in his arms, sitting down on the bed, holding her close and speaking hoarsely, clearly having decided what was next.

“Tell me if I’m too rough, or tell me to stop altogether if ye wish. Anytime until we are joined; I dinna think I can stop after that.”

In answer, she put her hands behind his neck and pulled him down on top of her, guiding him to the slippery cleft between her legs.

“Holy God,” said James Fraser, who never took the name of the Lord in vain.

“Don’t stop now,” she said, exhaling slowly.

* * *

Now they lay side by side in what had been only the day before, Claire’s bed, tight against one another in the small space.

“Did ye like it then?” Jamie’s mellow voice whispered drowsily. “After the first, I mean. I hope I didna hurt ye overmuch, Sorcha.”

Silence stretched between them - a comfortable and companionable silence - as she turned to her side and propped her head up, leaning on her elbow.

“Yes, I did,” she whispered. “If I’m completely honest,” she lay back on the bed, not quite ready to stare him full in the face with her admission. “I’m a bit surprised by it.”

He had been clear from the start. If she did not wish him in her bed, he would wait. He knew things had been abrupt and surprising, unplanned and unforeseen. But she’d told him to come anyway, allowed him to see her, to touch her, welcomed him to do so. And at last, to join with her.

“I think I could lie here fore’er wi’ ye.”

She moved closer to him then, laying her head on his chest. “Could you?” she replied. “What would we do then, lying here forever?”

“Ye dinna need to  _do_ anything. I would just choose to  _be_. To be next to you, knowing that ye have my heart and it is safe wi’ ye.”

“It is.”

She didn’t even realize they’d fallen back asleep until the sunlight pierced the curtain at the window.

“I know you said that we could lie here forever but I think I’d be rather hungry if that was the case,” she laughed and he joined her. “Also, the sun is up and the light ought to be put out.” An easy pause followed then, interrupted by a tender murmur. “But I admit to being rather reluctant to move on.”

“Aye,” he replied, slowly leveraging himself into a sitting position, causing the blankets to fall and let the cool air into their bed, raising gooseflesh.

A knock at the door startled them.

“Lass?” the gruff voice of Murtagh floated through. 

Two pairs of eyes, one blue and the other golden, found one another in a combination of surprise and nervousness. Claire swung her legs over the edge of the bed, quickly grabbing and putting on her shift where it had been left on the floor the night before, and wrapped her shawl around her, scooping up the still-unnamed kitten and going to the door, cracking it open the tiniest bit. It was all in nearly a single movement that she had done it and had taken but a second, yet somehow time seemed to slow.

“Ah, good,” Murtagh said when he saw her face poke through. “I concluded the business of the contract sooner than I thought and returned just now but I cannae find my nephew. Have ye any idea where the lad has gone?”

She felt him come to stand behind her more than heard. “I’m here, uncle.”

Backing up slightly, she opened the door wider to allow Murtagh entrance into the house.

“What in God’s name are ye doing in here, lad? What have ye done?” his questioning intensified as he looked at the state of relative undress of his nephew and young woman before him, realizing what had most likely, or most  _definitely_ , unfolded while he was gone.

“Weel, I’d like to introduce ye to Claire  _Fraser_.” He beamed in pride and Claire’s pale cheeks glowed rosy in the pale dawn’s light. “My wife.”

 


	12. Epilogue

                                                               

“So there actually was no Clarence Beauchamp who was the lighthouse keeper?” 

Mackenzie sat at the foot of my bed, printouts of several historical documents between us. She’d come home for her spring break from college while I still had school. We were sifting through more information before mom got home, hoping to organize things into some semblance of order to surprise her.

“After her uncle died and Murtagh and Jamie came, Claire was the one who became the keeper. Apparently, according to Claire’s journals, Murtagh went to sign the contract and put a masculine version of  _her_ name on the contract intending to let her stay and be in charge the whole time. He came back to Claire  _Fraser_ instead, because she and Jamie got married in the few days while Murtagh was away.”

Mackenzie gaped at me as I explained.

“Also, let me tell you, Claire’s journal is  _not_ G-rated during that whole period of time…” I smirked and trailed off.

“ _Jamie!_ ” she laughed, pretending to be scandalized even though I knew she wasn’t.

“But it’s all here. From the time Murtagh and Jamie Fraser showed up at the lighthouse all the way until Claire retired, years later. Journals, contracts, the floor plans for the lighthouse remodel that they did to turn it into a real home. Everything is here.” I sighed in contentment and pride, leaning back against the headboard of my bed as Mackenzie reached out her hand to spread the pages out once more.

“You found our family, Jamie,” she smiled. “Mom is going to love this.”

I nodded happily.

“What’s next then?” she asked. “Are you just going to finish your state history project and wrap this up too?”

“I finished my project for school. I  _had_ to get it out of the way to work on this! But I don’t think I’m done looking into Claire and Jamie’s life,” I answered, still smiling. “I feel like there’s still more. I don’t think their story is done, even now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to @happytoobserve. I had never worked with a beta. Honestly, I enjoy writing and sharing it with someone for feedback made me nervous. I was scared it would make something fun into work. But she just made it better!
> 
> There are a few readers who have been there every step of the way. If I start naming specific names I will forget someone special, no doubt. I hope you know that I really do read all the comments even if I don’t message you back. I deeply appreciate hearing from each one of you, small comments or big ones!
> 
> Lastly, feel free to send me asks about anything from the story! I would love to talk about it! And if you hope to see more of this version of Jamie and Claire in the future, tell me what you hope to see!


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